


In Her Wake

by Akamaimom



Category: The Last Ship (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6854461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akamaimom/pseuds/Akamaimom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set sometime between "Fight the Ship" and "Solace". Tom is grieving the loss of his wife, escaping to the upper deck in the dead of night to try and find some peace. He's interrupted, however, by the one person who causes him the most confusion - who is also the one person who might actually be able to guide him out of the darkness. Tom/Rachel angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Her Wake

**_In Her Wake_ **

 

_Set sometime between the events of “Fight the Ship” and “Solace”._

_I believe that Tom Chandler is a man of great inner turbulence. He seems like a man of great honor to me, with an underlying passion that is tough to contain. Of all the characters on The Last Ship, he’s the one that intrigues me the most, mostly because I sense that he’s capable of both violence and love that are beyond his control._

_I didn’t start out shipping Tom and Rachel, and I have absolutely no idea where Season 3 will take them, but I think that this conversation might truly have happened at some point off-camera. And I think that Tom would have been truly conflicted by what he feels and wants._

 

 

 

His father had driven him to the water.

Not literally - unless he considered myriad childhood fishing trips, or the odd family vacation at the beach. But those jaunts had grown shorter and less frequent as Tom had grown older - as school and sports had taken up more space on the calendar, and as the Army had sent Jed Chandler further and further afield in service to his country. Inevitably, father and son had grown apart, their paths diverging. While Jed had found his normalcy amidst the tempered violence and secrecy of the Special Forces, his son had eventually found his own aboard the close-knit floating communities of the Navy.

Tom didn't have any reason in particular to have disliked the Army, nor any particular cruelty to resent at the hands of his father. Now, looking back, he saw things a little differently - understood how a father as focused as Jeb Chandler would have pinned all his highest expectations on his eldest child and only son. But, as a teenager, Tom hadn't possessed the ability to understand that. Instead, he'd escaped. Fresh out of high school, arrogant and ornery, he'd marched himself down to the recruitment office and joined the Navy.

He hadn't been able to discern why he'd chosen the uncharted depths of the Navy rather than share a uniform with the Old Man. Like most young men, he'd lacked the introspection necessary to figure out the 'whys' of his actions - he'd just known that he felt pinned. Trapped beneath the weight of someone else's idea of what his future should look like.

So, he'd sailed off into one of his own making.

And just a few weeks ago, he'd sailed off again. Away from his family, away from home and hearth and loved ones. The irony was that he'd entrusted his own children into the care of the man he'd once been so desperate to leave behind. What had made the difference? Experience, perhaps. Wisdom. Not to mention that damned idea of 'perspective' that kept hitting him upside the head.

Tom leaned against the cable that served as a railing on the edge of the ship, roughing his hands against the paint-smoothed metal. It was chillier than he'd thought it would be when he'd left the bridge. The wind blowing in off the water bit through his ACUs and stung his cheeks. Cold. Sharp. Painful.

Alive. It made him feel alive. Alive when everything else lately had made him feel nothing but numb. He'd forced himself through the motions, restocking the James and making the necessary arrangements to sail. Interviewing and recruiting new personnel to replace the fallen. Supervising repairs and upgrades. He'd arranged a rotating guard to watch over the neighborhood where he'd left his children, gotten Kelly and Ava situated nearby, and then tried to prepare himself to leave.

He'd _chosen_ to trust his father to raise his children. It hadn't been difficult, to be honest. Jeb was the obvious, and best, choice for the job. Tom knew without question that his father would fight to the death to keep his kids safe.

Just as he'd fought for Darien.

He lowered his head, closing his eyes against the pain lurking in his heart. Tried to protect himself from the now-familiar stab of guilt that cankered inside him. He missed her. Missed the knowledge that somewhere, his smart, kind, pragmatic wife was out there waiting for him. Praying for him. Taking care of things at home so that he could be halfway around the world protecting their way of life. 

He missed the sound of her voice. Her touch. Her smell. While preparing to leave, he'd thought about tucking one of her perfume bottles or a piece of her clothing into his pack - just to have something of her with him. At the last moment, he'd left it all behind. He couldn't really explain why. It had just felt wrong. As if he were clinging to the impossible. As if he were denying reality.

Sighing, he gritted his teeth against the ache that arose, sharp and intense, against his sternum. Regardless what people said, time did not heal all wounds. If anything, they were getting worse. How pathetic that was - what delicious irony it was that the guy credited with helping to save the world couldn't even save himself.

How had the world come to this? And how the hell had he and his crew become its saviors?

He leaned over the rail, steadying himself on his forearms, watching the waves roil on the surface of the deep. Over the years, he'd learned to love the ocean. He craved her mystery and her power. She was beauty, and danger, and life. She both healed and broke those who ventured out into her, those who took her for granted, and those who treated her casual disregard. Breathing out an epithet, Tom realized he wasn't just thinking of the sea in those terms. That description could also fit -

"Captain Chandler."

 _Her_.

Her voice came softly from behind him, the British vowels as distinctive as her dusky timbre.

He didn't pivot to meet her. Instead, he angled his chin over his shoulder, glancing towards her from the corner of his eye. She'd approached silently - as she was wont to do from time to time. Maybe she'd meant to surprise him. Or perhaps she'd been as shocked to find someone else above decks at this unholy hour.

Her expression didn't belie the answer. "I wasn't expecting anyone to be up here." 

She took two - three - four steps in his direction, ending up a few feet away and behind him. He could feel her indecision, could tell she was hesitant as to whether to stay. Steeling himself, Tom pivoted a quarter-turn towards her, keeping one hand firmly wrapped around the metal guardrail. "I thought I'd be alone up here myself." 

"Do you mind?" She threw a random gesture back towards the hatch. "Because I could go. I was merely looking for some fresh air." 

Fresh air. She'd dressed for the chill of the evening. Her customary jeans were topped by a bulky sweater that fit loosely at the neck, exposing a hint of pearly skin, of bare collarbone. Her hair lifted gently with the tug of the breeze. She didn't seem to like tying it back. Tom had felt chagrined lately wondering how a woman as tight and buttoned-up as was Rachel Scott could stand to have hair that wild and untamed. "I don't mind. Stay if you want to." 

She bit her lips against the smile that rose. "All right." 

She approached the railing, pressing her midsection against the cold steel as she leaned slightly out to study the ocean. "Titanic. Do you remember that movie? Who was the girl in that movie? A British actress, wasn't it?" 

"I think so." 

"I saw it ages ago. Some of the other students in my undergrad program were fawning all over it and so they dragged me along to the theater. I sat through the whole damned thing, knowing exactly how it ended - the death, and the sadness, and the misery - and all my colleagues could talk about was how that girl had stood at the prow of that ship with her arms flung wide with that boy behind her." 

"King of the world." 

She dimpled into a smile at that. "Right. King of the world. Oh, they prattled on and on about the romance of it. I would have thought that the girls were all going to swoon to death right then and there. But you know what?" 

Chandler shook his head exactly once. "What?"

"All I could think about was how hard it was going to be for her to get the tangles out of her hair."

Ironic. His gaze flickered from her own loosely flowing curls to the bemused expression on her face. "Maybe she used conditioner."

Her teeth flashed in a quick, surprised laugh. "Perhaps."

The Captain watched as she took a step away from the edge, folding her arms across her midsection. Her countenance morphed from bemused to thoughtful before she looked up at him again. 

"I've been meaning to talk to you." 

He looked at her, his expression a question. Hesitantly, he lifted a brow, setting his jaw against the unknown. "Oh?" 

Rachel inhaled deeply before she continued, the sea air thick and moist around them. "We haven't really had a moment to talk since we headed back out to sea. Since leaving Norfolk." 

"It's been busy."

"That, it has." She nodded, lifting a hand to shove a troublesome strand of hair behind her ear. "I thought that perhaps once we'd found the cure, I'd be released from my lab, but there's so much more to do." 

He leaned back against the cables at the ship's edge, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. "It's a process."

"A never-ending one, it seems." Rachel toed the deck with her boot, scuffing against a nonexistent smudge of dirt. "But it's kept me from telling you how very, very sorry I am about your wife."

Chandler swallowed against the pain that stabbed again at his heart. His lips drew tight against his teeth.

"I can't imagine that loss." Her dark eyes rose to capture his. "I know that she must have been very special." 

Anger flooded into his gut. Anger, and guilt, and hurt. He felt his jaw clench, but forced himself to relax. Tried to control the grief that threatened at his soul. He hadn't yet had the time to mourn. In reality, he hadn't known how to. There hadn't been a funeral, or the customary acknowledgements. There simply hadn't been an opportunity for such things. Not when the rest of the world was in the process of dying, too. Sucking in a quiet breath, he nodded gently. "She was." 

"Would you want to talk about her?" 

"No." He'd snapped the word, then felt ashamed when the Doctor had jumped at his tone. Inhaling deeply, he dropped his gaze towards the water again. "Not particularly." 

Her eyes scoured his expression, judging his response. "You miss her." 

"I do." 

"I'm so sorry." 

"It's not your fault." It had become his automatic response. Absolution without meaning. 

Her hand reached across the distance to settle on his arm. "It's not yours, either, Captain." 

Then why did it feel like it was? Intellectually, he could break it down and explain it. Were he to sit in a room with a shrink, he could logically elucidate that he was no more responsible for Darien's death than he was for World War II. He could clearly expound on every reason why neither he nor his crew could have done any more than they had done to save her. 

But hearts were notoriously harder to convince, weren't they? What was it that Darien used to say? "You can't legislate feelings." 

"She was ordinary, you know?" He didn't know where the words had come from, only that once they started flowing, he couldn't seem to stop them. "She had a huge heart - always volunteering at food pantries or in vets' groups. She practically had her own key at the kids' school, she was there so much. She loved being useful. But she wasn't Superwoman. She had her issues. Couldn't bake worth a damn. She was fine with dinners and lunches, but Darien couldn't make cake or bread or rolls. She always ended up buying them for Thanksgiving or birthdays. My sister and little brother teased her incessantly about that." 

Rachel didn't respond, merely watching him as he worked through the thoughts racing through his head. It felt odd to have that kind of attention willingly paid to him - as Captain, his crew jumped to his bidding, but he knew that was because of their training and conditioning, not necessarily because they wanted to listen to every word he said. 

"She held things together when I was gone. She remembered the anniversaries, and started Christmas shopping in April to make sure it all got done before Black Friday. She had this thing about shopping through the holidays - she hated it. She was the one that called my nieces and nephews and all the assorted friend and family on their birthdays, or sent them cards. She was the glue. The one who made things work. Paid the bills, juggled the finances, dealt with kids' sports and school, got stuff repaired when I wasn't there. She kept it all running smoothly. The house. The kids. Me." 

"Sounds like Superwoman to me." Her voice threaded through the quiet, reaching him across the void. "I couldn't imagine doing all of that." 

"It was just her. Just how she was. She thrived on being busy." He smiled at the memory. "But if you'd told her she was remarkable, she would have rolled her eyes and laughed at you. She couldn't stand being in the spotlight." 

"So, you two were alike in some ways." 

Chandler threw Rachel a quick, assessing look before offering a shrug. "I guess." 

"How long were you together?" 

"Thirteen years, give or take." Reaching out, he ran his hand across a bit of metal that looked like it was starting to bubble. He'd have one of the crew sand that off first thing. If there was one thing he hated on his ship, it was rust. "We met in college. I was cocky back then - full of myself. Stupid. I was almost done my senior year, but I'd put off one of the lower level courses. It was a lit class. Shakespeare, Wordsworth and the like." 

"The classics."

"Right." Restless, he threaded his fingers through his hair, taking a few steps aft, towards the helo deck. "Do you mind if we walk?" 

"Of course not." She fell into step beside him, her stride easy and sure. For several long, quiet moments, they just moved around the edge of the ship, their feet quiet on the deck. When he didn't continue, she nudged him with a prompt. "So - were you always a fan of literature?" 

He made a strangled sort of laugh, his breath a little cloud that was summarily whisked away by the breeze. "No. Not at all. Remember? I'd procrastinated that particular class."

"Let me guess. You were more interested in history. Or philosophy."

"You'd imagine right. I was a history major, with a Russian minor. I'd already had enough of being enlisted, and wanted to go into officer training."

"Mason told me that you were a SEAL." She paused, her brows edging together in question. "Don't you have to be an officer for that?" 

"No." He'd stopped a few paces in front of her, and turned to face her. "You can enter SEAL training as soon as you qualify out of boot camp. Most sailors burn out."

"But you didn't." 

His lips thinned, his eyes hard. "No. I didn't." 

She seemed to understand that the topic of conversation was closed. "All right, then. Literature." 

"So, I was sitting in class, on the back row. I was an arrogant putz, and I'd put my feet up on the seat in front of me. It was a full room on the first day of the semester, and just before class started this girl walks in. Cute - you know? Young. Blond, big blue eyes. She had on this flippy little skirt and a sweater and just strode over to where I was sitting and stood there, staring at my feet on that chair." Tom scrubbed at the stubble just starting to appear on his jaw. "She asked me to move my feet, and I told her to find another desk. My buddies all laughed - because she was just this little slip of a thing, right?" He smiled down at the deck, remembering. "I was wearing a Navy T-shirt, and she kind of pointed at it and said, 'So, you're a SEAL?' I told her I was. She just gave me the sassiest look and said 'Too bad you're not a gentleman.'" 

"Ouch." 

"Six months later, we were engaged." He aimed back towards the helo deck, but didn't start walking, looking out over the ocean again, instead. "She could always see right through me. She knew exactly what I was thinking, even when I tried not to give anything away. And she was completely unimpressed with the fact that I was Captain of the Nathan James. Whenever we'd make home port, she and the kids would come and meet me. She'd stand through the ceremonies and saluting and the military stuff, and then we'd pile in the car and head home. First thing she did every time I walked through the front door was remind me that the garbage needed to be taken out and that I needed to remember to put the lid down on the toilet. Every damned time."

She'd tried to quell her laugh, but hadn't quite been able to. Tom turned to find the Doctor hiding her grin behind her hand, her dark eyes bright. 

"I think you would have liked her." 

Shoving her hair back over her shoulder, Rachel nodded. "Oh, I'm sure I would have." 

As if by unspoken agreement, they started walking again. Slowly, moseying more than anything else in the chilly night air. He'd shoved his hands into his pockets, and she'd tucked hers beneath the sleeves of her sweater. They walked mere inches apart, sharing each other's heat, his larger body acting as a windbreak of sorts for her much-smaller form. It struck him again just how slight she was. Even wearing the voluminous sweater, she didn't seem much bigger than Ashley. Which was odd, considering the gigantic pain in the ass she could make of herself. 

Not to mention the enormous void she left in her wake. 

"She was something else." Tom spoke more to fill the silence, than anything else, but he honestly couldn't say with certainty who he was talking about - his wife, or the woman walking next to him. 

And suddenly it was too much. She was too close. Or he was. Tom couldn't tell precisely which. Only that he needed some space, to step back from this topic before he made a fool of himself. He shouldn't have said anything about Darien - especially not to Rachel, who had been the only woman to touch him since they'd first set sail to the Arctic. 

Touches he'd thought about far too often, for far too long, even before he knew that his wife wouldn't be surviving the apocalypse. 

Gritting his teeth, he took a few long strides away from her, ending up close to the guard rail again. Turning, he leaned back against the cables. "So, I never got a chance to thank you properly." 

Rachel looked over at him. "For what?" 

"For helping Lieutenant Foster get out of Granderson's lab." Tom looked out over the water for a moment before refocusing on the Doctor. "She told me that you and Tex arrived just in time." 

"She'd taken care of the threat on her own before we got there." Rachel pressed her lips together, pausing in memory. "She's quite the young lady." 

"She is." The Captain raised a single brow. "I just hope that I can find someone to fill in for her when the time comes for her to leave us." 

"Twenty weeks, isn't it?"

"According to the regulations." 

"Any chance that could be tweaked at all? I feel safer with her at her post." 

"Don't we all?" Tom scratched at a random point beneath his left ear. "She's a hell of an officer." 

"Regardless, she needs to do what's best for the baby." The doctor tilted her head back to look up towards the stars dotting the sky. "I'm sure she'll be an amazing mother."

"She will. Speaking apocalyptically, if there's a couple I'd choose to start repopulating the human race, it's Green and Foster." 

"True." She smiled. "Life needs to resume. People need to move on."

Despite himself, he grinned. "It kind of reminds me of that play - the Shakespeare one. 'Much Ado about Nothing'."

 "Ah. Beatrice and Benedict." Her smile was bright. "One of my favorites." 

"That's the one. At one point, Benedict is talking to himself about how much he doesn't want o give up his independence in order to be with Beatrice, and he just stops in the middle of all that reasoning and says, 'The world must be peopled!'" He sighed. "Darien loved that movie - Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh and the guy who played Ted - that production." 

"Ted?"

"Bill and Ted." Tom scrunched his nose, his eyes narrowed. "You were probably too cerebral to have seen that movie."

"I didn't get to many theaters when I was a girl." 

"Your parents were missionaries, right?" 

"Yes." Rachel looked downwards, towards her boots. "Although their brand of religion didn't seem to stick with me."

"Did you have any siblings?" 

"No. My father was quite devoted to his work. He felt that more children would have demonstrated a certain lack of self-control." She didn't like talking about it. That much was apparent in her tone as well as the set of her body. "And then my mother died, so that was that."

"Ah." The Captain nodded, his brows lowered. "There were three of us. Me, my sister, and my little brother. Darien only had one sister and really wanted a big family. We had Ashley pretty quickly after we got married, and we always thought that we'd have a bunch more." 

"And then you had your son." 

"We lost a few first. Had two miscarriages and an ectopic pregnancy. And then she got pregnant with Sam. He was so damned tiny - several weeks premature. Darien developed preeclampsia in a big, bad way and nearly died. She hadn't had any problems at all with Ashley, so we were totally surprised when she got so sick. She spent two weeks in the hospital recovering, and Sam spent five weeks in the NICU, and the doctors told Darien that she needed to be done having kids." 

"So, just the two, then."

"Just the two."

He'd tried to change the subject, hadn't he? How the hell had he started talking about Darien again? Tom looked down at the large shapes of his boots, dark against the deck of the destroyer. What was it about Rachel Scott that made him prattle on like a biddy at a beauty shop? Sighing, he damned himself for being weak. For needing to talk. For needing something right then besides orders and duty and code. Slattery was his friend and the XO, but he couldn't have imagined talking about any of this with him. Honestly - he hadn't imagined talking like this with anyone. He'd never really needed anyone in the past, because he'd always had Darien.

Damn it. Guilt rose anew against his sternum, invading his heart.

"So, would you do it again?" 

Her voice dragged him out of his own thoughts, pulling him from his own turmoil back into the present. "What?" 

Despite the expectation present, Rachel's expression was carefully guarded. "Marry again. Have more children." 

He couldn't have answered that if he'd tried. It was too early. Too fresh. He still hadn't worked his way through losing Darien, or the guilt/grief/emptiness that had resulted from that loss. More to deflect than anything else, he asked, "Would you?" 

"Good Lord, no." Rachel again rolled her eyes heavenward, scanning the clear skies for something indescribable. "Can you imagine me as a mother?" 

She'd meant it dismissively, but Tom ignored that. He'd always been adept at figuring out what people really meant, for deciphering the truth in and around what their words had actually been. It was a skill vital for anyone in authority or command, something handy in times like these, when he needed to know ulterior motives and intents. His eyes made a careful, casual sweep of her expression, her stance, the way Rachel's body had curled in on itself as she'd folded her arms tightly against her midsection. The way her mouth had tightened enough that the dimples appeared in her cheeks. Not aversion, then. Fear. 

They shared that, then. He'd loved and lost and didn't want to face the possibility of loving again. He didn’t know whether she’d loved anyone, but he was certain that Rachel Scott was terrified at the thought of loss.

He exhaled, his eyes steady upon her as he chanced a meaningful half-smile. One a great deal more intimate than he'd intended. And in the dark, the salt wind buffeting them both, the moon limning them in its silver glow, he found that he had to clear his throat before he could speak. "Yes. Yes, I can." 

Still. So utterly still. She stood there, feet away, her fingertips peeping out from beneath the sleeves of her over-large sweater, her hair tussling with the wind, her luminous eyes fixed on him. She wasn't classically beautiful - she was a little too bold, her eyes too keen, her cheeks too wide, her lips too generous. Rachel Scott's rampant intelligence was daunting - her impatience for those who fell short evident in her manner and address. She challenged everything he was, and did, and said. She respected his position in public, but openly defied him in private. And here, on this deserted deck in the dark of night, she had effortlessly pried from him secrets that he hadn't been ready or willing to tell. Regardless of how uncomfortable it made him, he understood her. And in return, this difficult, fascinating, brilliant woman understood him. 

It was both frustrating and as confusing as hell. 

"Well then." She quirked her head to one side, the corner of her mouth twitching. "You are far more optimistic than I had originally thought. And perhaps just a little bit delusional." 

"Delusional." He lifted a brow, amused. 

Her teeth flashed brilliantly in the dark as she grinned at him. "Just a bit." 

"I've been called worse." 

"And so have I." She sucked in a deep breath, her gaze focused on him as she took a few slow steps towards him, stopping mere inches away. "We are two of a kind, you and I." 

"Maybe." He needed to get away. So close, he could smell the shampoo she'd used, the institutional tang of the laundry detergent wafting from her clothing. Even in the dark, he was reminded of what he'd discovered aboard the Vyerni so many weeks ago - that her eyes weren't truly brown, but a haunting amalgam of green and grey and copper. His traitorous mind remembered how those lips had felt pressed to his own, how she'd risen up against his touch, how her skin had soothed the angry blisters on his palms. How she'd saved him. 

Now, she'd invaded his space - probably in innocence, but his reaction was anything but. And as much as Tom hated himself for responding to her, he recognized that this need, this craving, this hunger was outside of his control. Whether it was fueled by his own feelings of loss and need and want, or by some inexorable pull of this woman herself, he didn't know. 

She shivered. From the wind? Or the conversation? He really couldn't tell. She folded her arms against her body again, her hands balled into the sleeves of her sweater. She was breathing quickly, her eyes wide, her pulse quick against the delicate skin of her neck.

"You're cold." Chandler swallowed against the knot lodged in his throat. His voice was coarse, raw. He noticed that a single strand of hair had caught itself on her lip. His fingers itched to smooth it away, to gather that wanton mess into some semblance of order. Instead, he indicated the hatch with a tilt of his head. "You should go in." 

"Yes." Nodding, she turned her face into the wind before glancing back at him, suddenly perplexed. "I should. You should, too. It's getting windier." 

"I'll be in after a while." He took a step backwards. "I've got some things to check on." 

"Right." But she didn't believe him. Nodding, her mouth a thin line, she turned towards the helo bay doors, walking slowly towards the entrance into the ship. 

"Rachel." He couldn't help himself. 

She stopped, slowly rounding to face him. "Yes?" 

"Thank you." Tom exhaled heavily. "For this. For the talk. For listening." 

Her shrug was barely noticeable. "Anytime, Tom. I'd like to think that we're friends." 

"Friends." The word lay between them. Meaning nothing and everything all at once. 

A sigh was her only response, her eyes shuttered and dark. After what seemed like an age, she turned, pivoting on the heel of her boot and angling towards the door.

He watched as she headed back towards the hatch, as she flipped the latch and yanked it open. She stepped over the knee-knocker, then paused, passing a cautious look back over her shoulder. It only lasted a breath - her body illuminated by the light within the P-way before the ship itself seemed to swallow her, the hatch clunking shut behind her.

And she was gone. 

Hissing out a breath, Chandler turned back towards the ocean. Serene, beautiful, the graceful swells lifted away from the hull of the ship, the wake white in the glow of the moon. The sea shimmered thickly in the night, topped here and there with silver foam. A distant growl thrummed beneath his feet and in his ears - engines, turbines, gears - a sound he'd long-since accepted as the soundtrack, of sorts, to his life. Above him, the sky hovered inky and black. Like jet satin strewn with a million diamonds. 

Eventually, this would be over. Someday - hopefully soon - they'd lay anchor back in Norfolk - the world saved, the immediate threat ended. Surely someone else would come along who could safeguard things. The world would find its way. Life would resume its course and a new normal would settle in. Someday, he would wake every day and make breakfast for his children, take them to school, and take care of their needs. Life would make sense again. 

Until then, _this_ was his universe. This ship. This ocean. This command. This damned mix of duty and honor and loyalties. 

And _her_. Safeguarding her so that the mission could continue. Keeping her alive, and safe, and providing the wherewithal for her to accomplish her work. 

Staying close to her while trying like hell to keep himself away. 

But Tom Chandler was a man of realities. He'd tried to deny what was happening, tried to pretend that the fascination he'd begun to feel was merely an intense sense of responsibility. He'd fought against the notion that this dichotomy of a woman was anything more than one of the myriad charges he'd been burdened with over the course of this hellacious mission. But - he was just a man. A fallible man. A damned fool of a man who hadn't had the sense to build a solid wall around his soul. A man who found himself drawn to the most impossible woman he'd ever met, while still mourning the most beautiful soul who'd ever been lost. 

If he was seeking salvation for the world, he was fairly sure there wouldn't be any left for him. He obviously didn't deserve to be saved, anyway.

"Damn it all to Hell." He didn't speak to anyone in particular - the ocean itself perhaps. Or God, if He was still listening. Even so, Chandler didn't know if he'd uttered a curse or a prayer.

_His father had driven him to the water, but this woman. . ._

_This woman._

_This woman could steer him home._


End file.
